Whatever You Say
by twinkylady
Summary: Hunter's depressed and Stephanie's had enough


Title:            Whatever You Say

Type:           Songfic set to Whatever You Say by Martina McBride

Genre:         Angst/Drama

Rating:         R for language and implications in the ending – don't want to give it away.

Summary:    Stephanie and Triple H after his most recent injury.  Paul's depressed and Stephanie has had enough.

Archiving:    Sure, just ask first

Disclaimer:   All the usual disclaimers apply – I own no one and nothing and make no profit from this story.  I haven't been a fan of Stephanie but Triple H was slowly growing on me.  

Feedback:    Better than sex and remember – flames toast marshmallows for S'mores!

A/N:  The lyrics to this song really touched me and I thought this might be a fitting way to use them.  Sentences bracketed with a double hyphen indicate thoughts.

WHATEVER YOU SAY

"Damn it Paul!  I won't do it anymore!  I'm tired of sitting here watching you drown your problems with a bottle of Jack Daniels.  No one is more aware than I am of what you've suffered this last year.  First you tore your quad and then messed up your elbow.  A lesser man would never have gotten back into the ring!  Not only did you get back in the ring once, you're doing your level best to ruin your chance of doing it twice!  If you think I'm going to stay here and participate in your little pity party, then you can think again.  Call me when you've come to your senses and grown up."

With that, Stephanie McMahon grabbed her purse and stalked out, slamming the custom-made etched glass front door of Paul's Greenwich, Connecticut house with enough force to rattle the panes in the frame.  Paul Levesque, better known as Triple H (or more recently, The Game) saluted her retreating back with the cut-crystal tumbler, drops of the rich amber whiskey splashing over the edge onto the Oriental carpet.  

--See ya Princess—good riddance to Daddy's little girl.  Like you've ever actually had to do anything for yourself.  There's always somebody to run and fetch and ask how high before the word "jump" finishes coming out of your mouth.  Some of us haven't had everything we've ever wanted handed to us by Daddy since the day we were born.--  With a sneer, Paul tossed back the remaining contents of his glass, wincing slightly at the burn.  He dug the remote to the stereo from under the cushion on his leather easy chair and pointed it in the general direction of the entertainment system behind him.  The slightly mournful strains of Martina McBride poured from the surround speakers tucked discreetly into the corners of his study.  He grimaced at what some of the guys would say if they knew he listened to country music.  

You think I'm always making

Something out of nothing

You're saying everything's ok

You've always got an answer

Before I ask the question

Whatever you say

--Well, isn't this just fucking appropriate?--   Paul harrumphed as he settled further into his easy chair.  He reached out and grabbed the nearly half-empty bottle of JD on the table beside him and started to pour another two fingers into the glass.  Ah what the hell, who needs a glass anyway?  He tossed the glass into the empty fireplace, watching it shatter on the white Italian marble as he tipped the bottle to his lips and another mouthful slid down his throat.  

The fire of the whiskey would burn out the pain in his body and the bitterness in his soul, if he just drank enough of it.  That was the excuse he used anyway.  The Billion Dollar Princess had no way of knowing how far down this elbow injury had brought him.  All the months of therapy and work on his leg; the intense pain and sheer helplessness he had endured—God, how could he face the locker room; how could he face his fans?  He was back in the spotlight for so short a time and now, here he was—practically back to square one.

The doctors had all said that he might never walk again after tearing his quadriceps.  He damn sure had no business getting back into the ring once he was healed.  No matter how strong the stitches, no matter how well his muscles had knitted themselves back together again, it would never be as good as new.  The constant stress of traveling, the punishment of heavy training and the unpredictability of being in the ring—hell look what happened to Kevin Nash!  

One of his best friends was having to go through the same torture of rehabbing that quad.  Paul wouldn't wish that on his worst enemy.  Kevin somehow found the strength to keep coming back though—even if it was just a few weeks here, a month or two there.  He was several years older than Paul himself, his hips and thighs and knees failing under the unnatural strain of supporting his 7 foot frame for most of his forty-two years.  If Kevin could do it, why couldn't he?  He didn't have the answer, but he knew deep in his heart he just couldn't.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Stephanie sat in her car at the bottom of the long driveway leading up to Paul's isolated ranch house.  She rested her forehead on her hands gripping the steering wheel, gently tapping it against her white knuckles.  She was worried about Paul's self destructiveness.  She'd been in the business too long, knew what happened to guys like Paul.  Guys who couldn't admit they needed help, that couldn't admit they were *human*!  He really believed all that crap about being The Game and if he couldn't play the Game then his existence was worthless.  Too many men lost in the bottom of a whiskey bottle or a pill bottle—young lives cut short, legends dead before their time.  She wasn't going to let it happen to Paul.  

She sat up straight, resolute in her decision.  She snapped on the radio and pulled out into traffic, headed back to the WWE headquarters.

We can change the subject

Pretend I never brought it up

Same old story anyway

That or we can work it out

Right now you're talked out

Yeah whatever you say

--We *will* work it out Paul.  You may be talked out right now but I'm not giving up on you.  We've got too much history for me to let you destroy all you've worked for. --

I know you can hear me

But I'm not sure you're listening

I hear what you're saying

But still there's something missing

Whether I go, whether I stay

Right now depends on

Whatever you say

Paul had been her best friend for years.  On TV they were supposed to be married – she and Paul had played off each other so well that the fans ate it up.  Truthfully they were more like brother and sister—he checked out her dates and playfully cuffed her on the arm when she was being silly, she put worms and lizards in his shoes and put glue in his conditioner.  It never failed to crack her up at the sight of the big man recoiling at a little salamander crawling between his toes.  When Joanie had left him, it was Stephanie who put up with his foul mood and cooked his favorite meal and teased and tickled him until he smiled again.

She had been fed up to *there* with him today.  For the past week she had stayed at his house, playing nursemaid.  Last night she had poured out his stash of liquor—her ears were still burning from the tongue-lashing he had given her.  And it had been for no good to boot; he had just sent the damn housekeeper to the ABC store for more.  

She turned onto the highway, deftly piloting her fire-engine red '65 Mustang towards Stamford.  She would get the rest of the guys involved and they would bring him back, kicking and screaming if they had to.  The Game was not over—and Paul would finish it whole once more.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Paul kicked up the footrest of the easy chair, resting his head on the padded back while he elevated his legs.  His thigh was throbbing, along with his head.  He had hoped the whiskey would dull some of the pain but today it only served to make it sharper.  His eyes were clenched shut, his right hand gripping the neck of the bottle so tightly he thought it might shatter.  

You say yes you need me

And no you wouldn't leave me

And that should be enough to make me stay

And even though I want to

I don't hear I love you

In whatever you say

Stephanie had promised to help him.  She was the kid sister he never had.  She loved him, despite all his faults (a fact she informed him of at least twice a day).  The two of them made a pact years ago to never let business come between them.  He would do anything to make her happy and would gladly lay down his life to protect her if necessary; he had no doubt she would do the same for him.  So he had thought—but today she left.  She had walked right out the door without so much as a backward glance.  If he had gotten to the point that Stephanie couldn't stand the sight of him then he was well and truly doomed.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Stephanie drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as her car motored smoothly down the tarmac.  She was composing a list of the people she would call on for Paul's intervention.   Once and for all they would make him understand that he was family, that he was loved and that he mattered, whether or not he was The Game.  

I know you can hear me

But I'm not sure you're listening

I hear what you're saying

But still there's something missing

Whether I go, whether I stay

Right now depends on

Whatever you say

Without taking her eyes from the road, she reached down and pressed the speakerphone button on her cell and punched in a number that was almost as familiar to her as her own.  

"Joanie?  This is Stephanie.  We have to talk."

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Paul drained the last swallow of Jack Daniels from the bottle and hurled it at the trashcan with bleary eyes.  He hated sad songs but the words of this one were speaking to him in a way that nothing else ever had.  He stumbled to the fireplace and grabbed the largest of the crystal shards winking from the floor.  He turned and picked up the handset to the cordless phone and flopped back into his leather chair.  

He contemplated his finds for a moment—his left hand holding the phone, his right hand curved around the glittering crystal spike.

Oh whether I go

Or whether I stay

Right now depends on

Whatever you say

Whatever you say

Whatever you say

He took a deep breath and dialed Stephanie's number.  


End file.
